History remembered this night as a collapse.
Finrod was saved by Barahir, but the western defenses still broke. Orc armies flooded through the gap, striking the High King's lands from two directions at once. Soon after, the central front fell as well. Angrod and Aegnor were slain.
In the west, betrayal sealed the elves' fate. Humans who worshipped Morgoth feigned allegiance, then struck from behind. Of Fëanor's seven sons, only the strongest barely held a single fortress. The rest were shattered, forced to abandon their positions and retreat east to preserve what little strength remained.
With that, the three great containment lines around Angband collapsed entirely.
Desperate to salvage the last honor of the elves, High King Fingolfin rode alone to Angband and challenged Morgoth himself. He wounded the Dark Lord seven times, but in the end, he fell.
If Rowan wanted to change any of this, there was only one path.
He had to hold the western choke point for Finrod. Stabilize the west first. Then bring reinforcements back to the center. If time allowed, shore up the east as well.
Only then would the elves avoid being ground nearly to extinction.
Otherwise, Rowan knew the truth. Alone, even he could not face Morgoth and an intact Dark Host.
"You really can fly that fast?" Angrod asked, eyes bright with sudden hope.
According to the dragon's intelligence, even messengers sent now would arrive too late. At best, it would be a gamble against fate.
But if Rowan truly moved faster than any horse…
"I wouldn't lie about something like this," Rowan said evenly.
Bregolas clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Evan, go. Use every scrap of speed you have. This is a matter of human honor as much as elven survival."
Rowan nodded. "Understood, Chieftain."
White wings unfurled behind him.
Before taking off, he pointed toward the heart of the city, where a towering white statue rose nearly two hundred meters into the air.
"That statue," he asked Angrod and Aegnor. "What's it made of? And will it hold?"
"That is a likeness of our father in Valinor," Angrod replied. "Carved from white stone. It's… quite durable."
"That'll do."
Rowan shot upward, landed atop the statue's head, and placed his palm against its brow.
"Adaptive Transfiguration."
Magic poured out of him in a roaring flood. The statue trembled. Stone groaned. Just as Rowan's reserves dipped dangerously low, the colossus opened its eyes.
"Hold the line," Rowan commanded, breath ragged.
Then he launched himself westward.
Moments after his departure, the white stone giant strode beyond the city walls. It crushed a cluster of orcs beneath its foot and swung a fist the size of a tower into the golden dragon.
"What is this thing?" Glaurung roared.
He unleashed a torrent of molten flame, but the white stone endured. Snarling, the dragon abandoned fire and closed in for brutal melee.
With the dragon pinned, the pressure on the battlefield eased instantly. Elves and humans stabilized their lines.
Rowan had left a guardian behind for a reason. If the center collapsed while he was gone, none of this would matter.
"Astonishing," Angrod breathed, watching stone clash with dragon. "We have never seen magic like this."
Even Bregolas and Barahir stood stunned.
They exchanged a look that said the same thing.
If Evan had mentioned this earlier, they would've commissioned statues across every human settlement.
Rowan flew hard.
Nearly half an hour later, he reached the narrow canyon between the central and western fronts.
"As expected," he muttered. "Sauron really is a snake."
From above, he could clearly see vast orc forces concealed along both sides of the pass, far more numerous than anything on the central front.
An ambush.
And just then, from the west, Finrod's elven army appeared, marching fast, drawn by the smoke and fire rising from the center.
History said that by the time Barahir arrived, Finrod's army was already destroyed, Finrod himself on the brink of death. Barahir's warriors had died to the last man, forming a wall of flesh to pull Finrod from Sauron's grasp.
But Rowan was early.
Before the trap could close.
"Expecto Patronum."
A spectral panda burst forth, soaring toward Finrod's host to warn them.
Rowan stayed behind.
Sauron's army held no Balrogs, no dragons. Just orcs. Endless numbers of them.
They had won before by sheer attrition.
So Rowan prepared something different.
Ancient magic.
Magic that didn't need to kill.
Only to paralyze.
"Ancient Spell: Stormfall."
The sky above the canyon darkened. Black clouds rolled in, heavy and unnatural. Lightning twisted and coiled within them like living things.
Below, Sauron looked up at the forming storm.
And for the first time that night, unease crept into the Dark Lord's heart.